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Copyrighted 1921 

BY 

Maurine Hathaway 


g)CLA6H403 


MAy 14 1921 


INTRODUCTION 


Dear Fathers and Mothers of 

Wide-awake Boys and Girls: 

No child likes to be advised, preached 
at or told to do things. This is true of all 
children, whether they are six or sixty. 
Yet all of us, from the towheads to the 
baldheads, love stories. We love them so 
much we even accept the moral they con- 
tain and try to live up to it. If the moral 
is expressed in a fascinating way it is easy 
to remember. 

The poems of Maurine Hathaway teach 
our children the very things we want them 
to know, and each lesson is so attractively 
dressed in a rhymed story that the child 
never forgets it. Everything in child 
training, from table manners to the high- 
est ideals, is taught in these little verses. 

Maurine Hathaway had already at- 
tained front rank as a poet. Her children’s 
poems place her in the front rank also as 
a child psychologist. 

Elsie Lincoln Benedict. 




Little Steps 

in 

Child Training 

By 

MAURIKIE HATHAWAY 
AH' 

The Deed of the Kind Little Raindrops 

N A FLEECY old cloud away up in the sky, 

Once three little raindrops went wandering by. 

[ Then one dear little raindrop spoke thus : “Mercy me ! 

I’d just like to go back to the billowy sea.” 

And the next raindrop answered, “Oh, well, I don’t know, 

I think I’d prefer being a crystal of snow.” 

But the last little raindrop said, “Now, to my mind 
The best way to be happy is just to be kind. 

“Come, let’s try it! We’ll fall to the earth ’way down there. 
Just to make it more lovely and pleasant and fair.” 

So they dropped through the air to a seed that had lain 
Many long, summer days dry and thirsty for rain. 

Then the little seed sprouted, and one summer day, 

Lo! It budded and bloomed into bright blossoms gay. 

Yes, and would you believe it, a little sick child 
Saw the beautiful flowers and happily smiled. 

And their beauty soon made him forget all his pain. 

Just because of the kindness of three drops of rain. 

Don’t you think, since you’ve heard of the three raindrops bright. 
That that third little raindrop was just about right? 


Seven 





LITTLE clock grew weary, 

As it sat upon the shelf, 
’Twas tired of ticking all the time. 
And murmured to itself, 

“There isn’t anybody else 

That works so hard; I’m blest 
If I don’t think it’s time that I 
Should take a little rest.” 

And so it stopped, and Mrs. Brown 
Took all its works apart. 

And oiled them with a feather. 

But she couldn’t make it start. 

So when she found her little clock 
Had really stopped for good. 

She threw it out among the junk 
Behind a pile of wood. 

And there it lay and pondered. 

Doing nothing all the time. 

But thinking, thinking, thinking hard 
Among the dust and grime. 

Until it saw the folly 

Of the thing that it had done. 

And then it felt so sorry 

That it started in to run. 

When Mrs. Brown came out next day 
To get a load of wood. 

She heard the ticking of the clock 
And gladly cried, “Oh! Good! 

My little clock is running now.” 

And with a beaming face 
She took it back into the house 
And put it in its place. 

And now the clock is happy 

For this secret it has found: 

There's lots more fun in working 
Than there is in loafing round. 





^AID old Mother Crow, to her children one day, 

“Come, you little black darlings. I’ve something to say. 
The summer is passing, and harvest draws nigh. 

It’s high time that all of you learned how to fly. 

Else the wheat will be threshed in that field over there. 

And you can not fly over and gather your share.” 

“Follow me,” said she, fixing her specks on her nose. 

And adjusting her bonnet, as upward she rose. 

And hopped out from the nest to the limb of the tree 
While each little crow followed as scared as could be. 

“Oh, I can’t fly, I can’t! dearest Mother,” said one, 

“I’m afraid to learn how, for it just can’t be done.” 

“We can’t fly! we’re afraid,” they all started to cry. 

While their mother looked at them with scorn in her eye. 
“Tut, Tut!” she replied. “Now if you are afraid. 

You had better go some place and die, in the shade. 

As for cant, why I’m sure, there is no such a word 
In a crow’s dictionary — at least that I’ve heard. 

“Now this limb is quite low, and if you will watch me, 

You can see for yourselves just how easy ’twill be.” 

So she flew to the ground with a sort of a swoop, 

Then looked back at the limb, at the little black group 
Who were trembling up there, with their wobbly wings spread. 
“Come along, try just once,” kind old Mother Crow said. 

Then they all fluttered down like small parachutes black, 

And their mother then taught them the way to get back. 

“There!” said old Mother Crow, “Now, I think that was good! 
Why you did it just fine, and I knew that you could !” 

And the proud little crows were so pleased they began 
To implore her to let them all try it again. 

So they flew down again, and another time, too. 

Then their mother said sweetly: “I guess that will do. 

We must not tire your wings out the very first day. 

And there’s just one thing more that I’m going to say. 

Never let me again hear you use that word ‘can’t’!” 

And the little crows cried in a chorus, “Yom shantT 




The Troublesome Children of Old Mother Doubt 


HERE’S a wicked old woman called “Old Mother Doubt,” 
Whom I fancy you know, for she lives hereabout. 

She has two naughty babies named “Worry” and “Fear” 
And it’s well to avoid that whole family, my dear. 

For if Old Mother Doubt ever thinks you her friend, 

Right away she will bring you her babies to tend. 

Sb.e’ll leave them there with you the whole livelong day. 

And they’ll give you no time for your work or your play. 

They must be entertained, they’re so fussy and cross. 

And each moment you give them is simply a loss. 

For they cant be good children like other folks can. 

And they’re just sure to spoil every nice thing you plan. 

Worry cries about that; fear is frightened of this. 

And in tending these two, many pleasures you’ll miss. 

So to Old Mother Doubt it is wisest to say, 

“No, I can not take care of your children today.” 

Then she’ll soon understand that you won’t have her near. 

With her troublesome, bad little Worry and Fear. 

But if ever you’re sad, you had better watch out. 

Lest you’re minding the children of Old Mother Doubt. 



Ten 








The Circus Parade in 


ID you ever lie down on the velvety grass, 
And look at the clouds floating by, 
And see all the animals there as they pass. 
Having circus parade in the sky? 


There is sometimes a lion and tiger up there. 
And a dear little elephant child. 

And chattering monkeys and camels and bear. 
And a rhino so fierce and so wild. 


An eagle goes by with a long crooked beak. 

And a great fish that looks like a whale; 

A funny old rat — you can most hear it squeak- 
And a bunny with such a cute tail! 


There are zebras and goats, and sometimes there’s a 
moose — 

You can see its long horns just as plain — 

And a walrus and seal and a waddling goose 
And a horse with a long flowing mane. 


Just go out any warm summer day that is fair. 
And look up at the clouds floating by. 
And see if you don’t see the animals there. 
Having circus parade in the sky. 


Eleven 



The Maple’s New Dress 


H, I’M tired as can be 
Of this dress,” said a tree 
Who grew down in a beautiful glade, 
“With its color of green — 

Though it has a nice sheen — 

I do wish it were some other shade!” 

“For it’s such a distress 
To endure an old dress 
That I’ve worn since the first hint of spring, 

And it doesn’t seem fair 
That a fine tree should wear 
Such a faded and shabby old thing!” 

Old Jack Frost came that night 
In his jacket of white. 

Bringing palette and paint brushes, too. 

And he soon had arrayed 
The old tree in a shade 
Of a gorgeous and beautiful hue. 

“There, I do hope,” said he — 

As he chuckled with glee — 

“When you waken and find what I’ve done 
You will be satisfied 
With your gown, for I’ve tried 
To paint you a beautiful one.” 

He had scarce more than spoke 
When the maple tree woke. 

And looked down at her gaudy new dress. 

And she smiled in the sun 
At what Jack Frost had done. 

For her joy she could scarcely express. 

Then she rustled with pride 
And she tremblingly sighed. 

In her new gown of crimson and gold. 

And she said in delight, 

“I shall have one of white 
In December, when this one gets old.” 




The Rabbit, the Mouse and the Fox 


FUZZY-WUZZY rabbit. 

And a tiny meadow mouse, 
Had always lived together 
In a cunning little house. 

The mousie did the house-work up 
And sewed and cooked the food, 

While Fuzzy-Wuzzy hunted ’round 
For eatables and wood. 

And they were very happy 
Until one eventful day. 

An old fox who was meddlesome 
Went strolling by that way. 

He saw the fuzzy rabbit. 

And decided then and there. 

To get him for his dinner 

By some method, foul or fair. 

Poor Fuzzy, never dreaming 
Any danger was around. 

Was picking up the nice sweet nuts 
That lay upon the ground; 

When sly old fox came creeping up, 

And creeping closer still. 

Came creeping — creeping — creeping close. 
And closer yet — until 

He almost had poor Fuzzy 

In his grasp, when — Ouch! K’snap! 
The old fox who was meddlesome 
Was captured in a trap. 

Then Fuzzy-Wuzzy laughed “Ha! Ha!” 

And ran off through the grass 
To tell the little mousie 

What the day had brought to pass. 

“Well,” Mousie cried, “Now that just proves 
What mother used to say, 

'When folks set out to harm some one. 

They always get their pay" ” 



Foolish Little Squeaky Mouse 


OOLISH little Squeaky Mouse 
Used to roam around the house, 
Thinking all the food in sight 
Was prepared for his delight. 
Tasted that and nibbled this, 

Lest some good thing he might miss. 

Mother Mousie often said — 

With a wise nod of her head — 

“Squeaky, do not go away 
From your own dooryard to play. 

Keep a cautious watch about — 

Cats and traps are always out. 

Tender little mice like you 
Must be careful what they do.” 

Squeaky thought this wise advice 
Might be good for other mice. 

But for his dear little self. 

He preferred to roam the shelf. 

Nibbling at the cheese and pies 
(Squeaky Mouse thought he was wise). 

One fine day when he was out 
Sniffing snoopingly about, 

Pussy Cat came sauntering by. 

With a twinkle in her eye. 

Wise old Pussy, smooth and sleek. 

Heard a happy little squeak, 

Then poor Squeaky she espied, 

E’er the silly mouse could hide! 

What became of Squeaky Mouse, 

Who once roamed about the house? 

Guess you’d best be asking that 
Of the sly old Pussy Cat. 



Fourteen 






The Little House You’re Building 


■ ^’M SURE that you have often stood 
^ As quiet as a mouse 
^ And watched the masons as they worked 
To build a nice new house; 

And you have seen them lay the stones 
So deftly and so fast — 

One right upon another — 

Till the house was done at last. 


Dear child, you’re building just like that- 
Each day that hurries by — 

The dearest, fairest, little house 
Beneath the shining sky. 

And every little deed you do, 

And every word you say. 

Are just the same as stones or bricks 
You’ve seen the masons lay. 


You work upon it every day, 

From dawn to set of sun. 

And just like every task, at last 
Your nice house will be done. 
This house is called your “character,” 
So build it fair and true. 

With deeds and words of love, because 
That house, dear child, is you. 


Fifteen 



The Toadstool and the Acorn 


H SAUCY little toadstool 

That had sprung up in the night, 
Said to an acorn lying near, 

“Pray tell me, is this right. 

That oak trees sprout from acorns. 

And it takes them years to grow? 

IVe heard about it often. 

And I’ve wondered if ’twere so.” 

“Why, yes,” the acorn answered, 

“What you heard is very true. 

An oak grows from an acorn 

And it takes a long while, too. 

But when a great oak tree is grown 
It stands throughout all time. 

Defying wind, and rain and storm — 

A monument sublime.” 

“Oh!” said the toadstool, dolefully, 

“Now, isn’t it too bad 
They could not spring up quick like me? 

I think it very sad.” 

But Acorn only answered 

With a knowing little smile, 

^"Things done so quickly, as a rule. 

Are not the things worth while/* 



The Friendly Little Rose Bush 


MODEST little rose bush, 
Growing in a sunny yard, 
One day began to wonder, 
And to ponder very hard. 
To see if it were possible 

To find some pleasant way 
In which to make folks happier 
Who passed along each day. 

Well, after she had thought and thought 
About it for awhile. 

She finally decided 

That the best way was to smile. 
And so she started in to smile 
At every passer by. 

And nod her friendly branches 
With a twinkle in her eye. 

And every time a branch would send 
A smile out on the air, 

A lovely, little crimson rose 

Would bud and blossom there. 

She kept on smiling every day 

Through all the summer hours. 
Until that little bush became 
A mass of fragrant flowers. 

And people picked the roses 

For their dew and sweet perfume. 
But for each rose they took away. 

Ten more were sure to bloom. 

Now if a simple, little bush 

Could do so much. My! My! 

Just think of what a child could do. 

If he would only try. 

Suppose you do it once and see 
If it is really true. 

That every smile you give will bring 
Ten smiles right back to you. 





The Unhappy Little Caterpillar 


AID a wise old caterpillar 
To a little woolly one, 

“Go play with other little worms 
And have a lot of fun. 
What if they do make jokes about 
The fuzzy coat you wear, 

Just laugh and jest about it, 

And pretend you do not care. 

“For listen! Here’s a secret. 

Time is coming bye and bye, 

When you’ll not be a worm, you’ll be 
A gorgeous butterfly. 

And one of these fine days, although 
It may not be real soon. 

You’re going to wrap yourself up 
In a little brown cocoon. 

“And when you waken you will be 
One of those pretty things 
You see flit past us now and then. 

With lovely spotted wings.” 

Then little Caterpillar smiled. 

And dried his tears away. 

And went to find the other worms 
And join them in their play. 

And though they laughed about his fur. 
He didn’t fret or cry. 

Because he knew some future day. 

He’d be a butterfly. 



Little Mary’s Mistake 

^AIP Little Mary Davis, 

As she stirred her cup of tea, 
^‘Folks ought to mind their actions. 
And their manners, goodness me! 
I really think it’s awful. 

And I get impatient quite. 

With people who are careless 
And forget to be polite!” 

But when she stopped her stirring 
She left her spoon stand up 
Just like a silver soldier. 

In her little china cup. 

Her mother — ^who had heard her words — 
Came by and said, “My dear. 

Since I was standing very close, 

I could not help but hear 

“The words that you were saying 
And Lknow that they are true. 

And truly, I am very glad 

To hear such thoughts from you. 

But if you aren’t careful. 

Something’s going to happen soon. 

Your cup will topple over 

With that heavy little spoon.” 

When little Mary saw the joke 
She smilingly replied, 

“I’m glad you told me, mother. 

For my spoon should lie beside 
My cup here in the saucer. 

Since you’ve made the lesson plain, 

I will surely never leave it 

Standing in my cup again.” 






f 


The Little Truant 


OME and play with me, please, you dear 
huzzy old bee,” 

Said Johnnie one bright summer day. 

“I am making my honey,” the busy bee said, 
“To store for the winter away.” 

“Come and play with me, birdie,” he cried to a bird 
Who was flying afar, very high. 

“I am going for food for my dear baby birds,” 

Came the little wild bird’s quick reply. 

“Come and play with me, please,” Johnnie plead with a 
squirrel. 

Who was frisking about in the wood. 

“I haven’t the time,” said the little red squirrel, 

“I must hunt the brown nuts for my food.” 

“You will play with me, won’t you?” He asked of a 
flower, 

“For you aren’t busy, I know”! 

“Yes, I am,” said the flower, “I’m busy, you see. 
Drinking sunshine and dew, so I’ll grow.” 

So poor Johnnie was thoughtful awhile, and then said 
“I am sorry I ran off from school; 

I wish I had stayed with the others inside. 

And never had broken the rule; 

“For there’s no one to play with a bad truant boy; 

They are too busy working, that’s plain, 

I will go and tell Teacher I’m sorry right now, 

And I never will do it again.” 



Tvjenty 




■HKirjiij 



A Regular Boy 


OU’LL never, by a thought or word or action, 
Do anything to cause another pain. 

You’ll keep aloof from underhand transaction. 
No matter what it holds for you of gain. 


You’ll never cheat in play or at your labor. 

Though the reward be marbles, time or pelf. 

For you will realize to cheat your neighbor 
In double measure is to cheat yourself. 

You’ll never strike a smaller adversary. 

Nor tease and taunt him just to see him squirm. 
You’ll never by a movement voluntary 

Hurt any helpless thing, not e’en a worm. 

You’ll choose fine manly sports for recreation. 

You’ll shun companions who are coarse and mean. 
To shield your young mind from contamination. 

And keep your body strong and fit and clean. 

You’ll sound your country’s praise in song and story. 
You’ll rise whene’er its sacred airs are sung. 
You’ll always take your hat off to Old Glory 
Where’er you see our precious banner flung. 

You’ll treat all women with consideration 

And kindliness and give them due respect. 

As sisters, wives and mothers of the nation. 

Whom men are bound to cherish and protect. 

You’ll hold a reverence for things of beauty 
That have been given to you to enjoy. 

And manliness will be your highest duty. 

That is, of course, if you’re a regular boy. 


Tvienty-one 



Silver Heels and Fluffy Tail 


ER HEELS and Fluffy Tail 
Were foxes white as snow, 

[ sharp as two young weasels, 
Foxes always are, you know. 
But Silver was an honest fox, 

While Fluffy Tail would steal. 

That fox would pilfer anything 
On which to make a meal. 

Now Silver often cautioned him. 

And said to him, “My friend. 

If you don’t stop your thieving 

You will come to some bad end.” 
But Fluffy Tail would only laugh. 

And one bright winter night 
He started out to search for food 
Beneath the bright moonlight. 

He crept along a fence until 

He came to where he knew 
There was a chicken house that held 
Some pullets — young ones, too. 

He stole in very cautiously 

And caught a fine young hen, 

And just sat down contentedly 
To eat his dinner, when 

The farmer heard his chicken’s cry. 

And taking down his gun. 

He went out to his chicken house 
To see what had been done. 

Then flash! There was a quick report. 
But that was quite enough, 

And now poor little Fluffy Tail 
Is made into a muff. 

But Silver Heels still roams the woods 
A happy fox, and free. 

For he thought to be honest 
Was the only policy. 







The Strange Little Story Book 


AS anbody told you 

That the little thoughts you think 
Make lines, just like the little lines 
You write with pen and ink? 


And thoughts of anger, fear or hate. 
Will spoil the nicest face. 

By making ugly little lines. 

Which no one can erase. 


But thoughts of love and kindliness 
And joyousness and cheer. 
Make very pretty little lines. 

All fine and firm and clear. 


And bye and bye your face becomes 
A little story book, 

Which everyone can see and read 
Each time they chance to look. 


So if you want your face to tell 
A story sweet and fair. 

You must see that only good thoughts 
Do any writing there. 


Twenty-three 






HERE is a lazy boy who lives 
Here in our neighborhood, 
Who never helps his mother 

As a good boy really should. 
He will not bring the kindling in, 

Nor put his wraps away. 

And all he ever wants to do. 

Is run outside and play. 

If that boy were a honey bee. 

He’d soon be brought to know 
That he would have to do some work. 

Or out he’d have to go. 

Bees do not think that mothers should 
Do all the work alone. 

And when there’s one that tries to shirk. 
They call that bee a “drone.” 

He can not eat the honey. 

And he has no chance to thrive. 

They pounce on him and sting him good. 
And throw him out the hive. 

Now, if that lazy boy knew this, 

How very glad he’d be 
That he is just a lazy boy. 

And not a lazy bee. 





The Careless Young Squirrel 


HAPPY squirrel was Billy Frisk, 
Who lived out in the park, 

And played among the branches green 
From daylight until dark. 

But such a careless squirrel was he. 

He made his mother fret. 

For fear to store his winter’s food 
Her young son would forget. 

She spoke to him about it 

In a kind and gentle way. 

And Billy promised faithfully 
To save some nuts each day. 

But every time he thought of it 
He’d heave a little sigh. 

And say, “Oh, well, I’ll wait awhile 
And do it bye and bye.” 

At last the chilly winter winds 
Began to blow and blow. 

And soon the world lay white beneath 
A coverlet of snow. 

And Billy Frisk was in such straits 
He wondered what to do! 

I wouldn’t want to be a squirrel 
In Billy’s place, would you? 


The Happy, Little Maple Leaf 


LITTLE leaf that hung upon 
A whisp’ring maple tree 
Was always such a cheerful leaf 
And so content, that she 
Made everyone around her 

Just content and cheerful, too. 

All by setting the example 

As she thought she ought to do. 

She loved the dancing sunbeams 

And the winds that murmured by. 

The twinkling stars at evening. 

And the raindrops’ gentle sigh. 

She loved the summer birds that came 
To nest beneath her shade. 

And the laughing little children 
That below the maple played. 

In autumn time when Jack Frost came 
She did not fret or cry. 

But only blushed a rosy blush 
And heaved a little sigh. 

And when at last the old tree said, 

“’Tis time for you to go,” 

She drifted down contentedly 
To dream beneath the snow. 



The Happy Robin Family 


OUNG Mrs. Robin built her nest 
Up in an apple tree, 

While Mr. Robin sang near by, 

As happy as could be. 

And when the nest was quite complete, 
Four little eggs she laid 
And sat upon them quietly. 

There in the nest she’d made. 

And bye and bye, what do you think? 

One day a peck she heard 
Against the shell of one white egg. 

And then a little bird 
Without a feather to its name 
Stuck out its little head! 

And “Tweet, tweet, tweet, where am I?” 
Were the first words that it said! 

Then three more tiny trembling birds 
From out the wee shells came. 

And Mother Robin set about 
To find them each a name. 

She called the’ first one “Tweetie,” 

And the second “Chirpie Chee,” 

The third was “Twitter Witter,” 

And the fourth was “Chee Wee Wee.” 

And when those little robins four 
Were big enough to sing 
You should have heard their chorus! 

Well, it just beat anything. 

Young Chirpie sang soprano, 

Tweetie with an alto trilled. 

While Chee Wee warbled tenor 
Till the echoes fairly thrilled. 

Then little Twitter Witter, 

With a basso would begin 
And sometimes Mother Robin 

And the father would join in. 








They always started singing 

Every summer morn at dawn. 

I used to love to hear them 

On the dew-bespangled lawn. 

And their voices were so tuneful 

And their manners were so dear, 

I hope they’ll come and build their nests 
In that same tree each year. 


What the Raindrop Said 


y H, ISN’T it lovely?” a bright raindrop said, 
“That all I need do is to fall 
Through the cool, summer air, and I don’t 
need to care 
About where I am going at all.” 

“Now, I might be sent down to a blade of green grass. 
Or to comfort a dry, little weed, 

Or I might sink down into a garden, and be 
A help to some dear little seed. 

“Or perhaps I may go to a beautiful flower, 

Where honey bees hover and sip. 

Or maybe I’ll fall with more drops to a cup 

That will cool some sick child’s thirsty lip. 

“But no matter wherever I go, I am sure 

To be loved and watched over and blessed. 

And safe at the end of my journey at last, 

I can feel that that place is the best.” 

I believe that the raindrop’s remarks hold a thought 
For us big folks as well as the small. 

If we only would trust the dear Father enough 
We would never need worry at all. 





The Hardest Worker 


HONEYBEE, a silk worm 
And a humbly bumble-bee, 

A butterfly, a brown ant 
And a hoppy little flea 
All held a small convention 

Before old Judge Owl, one day. 

To see who’d worked the hardest 
Through the summer season gay. 

The honeybee then said, “You know, 

All summer long I strive 
To get the precious honey 

That I store within my hive.” 

The silkworm said, “I’ve labored, too. 

My silk cocoon to spin. 

To weave the lovely fabric 
That my lady dresses in.” 

The busy ant came next and said, 

“I toil each summer day. 

To help make streets and alleys wide. 

In Antville far away.” 

The humbly bumble-bee remarked, 

“I gather all the sweet 
While summer flowers are blooming 
So my little bees may eat.” 

The hoppy flea chimed in, “You see, 

I very seldom light. 

Because it keeps me hopping so 
To get my meager bite.” 

The butterfly came last, and said, 

“I’m very sad to say 
I haven’t worked this summer long. 

But idled it away.” 

Then spoke wise old Judge Owl, “Hoo! Hoo! 

You all have done your best. 

But truly, this poor butterfly 

Worked more than all the rest.” 




“How’s that?” the angry chorus cried, 
“Why! You just heard her say 
She has not worked all summer long, 
But idled it away!” 

“Yes,” said the owl, “Miss Butterfly 
Is one acknowledged shirk. 

But no one works so hard as one 
Who lives by dodging work.” 


The Dew Drop Fairies 

T night when folks have gone to bed 
And shadows creep around. 
The shining dew drop fairies come 
And frolic o’er the ground. 

They join the silver moonbeam sprites 
That play upon the green, 

And form a pretty picture 

In their gowns of glowing sheen. 

They wave their little silver wands 
Above the sleeping bowers. 

And drop bright jewels down upon 
The lovely dreaming flowers. 

They dance and dance until the dawn. 

With tints of rose and gray. 

Comes creeping o’er the eastern hills. 

Then softly steal away. 

And when the flowers waken 

And their petals spread apart. 

Each has the gleaming jewel 

Of a dew drop in her heart. 






The Milkweed Babies’ Secret 


HE wee milkweed babies are having a treat, 
Since the autumn-time haze fills the air, 
They are floating about o’er the lanes and the 
street, 

In their shining, white boats everywhere. 

The kind milkweed mother had kept them shut tight 
In the green pod that grew on her stalk. 

And wouldn’t let one of them out of her sight. 

Not even to go for a walk. 

Till sly, old Jack Frost with his magical wand 
Touched the flowers and leaves and the sod, 

And then Mother Milkweed, who really is fond 
Of her children, burst open her pod. 

And there were the babies with wee heads of brown. 
And long skirts of silvery white. 

Like little, soft wisps of the fleeciest down. 

So fluffy, and puffy and light. 

“Now go,” said the Mother Weed, chasing them out, 
“And see all the sights you can see. 

And don’t stop to rest, but go sailing about. 

Till you’re weary as weary can be.” 

So they’re sailing today on the breezes so gay. 

With never a worry or fear ; 

But a secret I know that I must give away. 

On these small milkweed babies so dear. 

Each one is a dear, little seedlet, you know. 

Decked out in a skirt, shim’ring white. 

And would you believe it? A milkweed will grow 
Wherever one chances to light! 



The Wild Rose and the Bee 


O ’WAY from here!” said Pink Wildrose 
To Jennie Honeybee, 

“You buzz around some other place, 

And stay away from me! 

You come and take my honey 
To your stuffy hive to eat. 

And I am sure without it 

I am not one-half as sweet.” 

“All right,” said Jennie Honeybee, 

“But you just wait till Fall, 

And then you’ll find your old brown seeds 
Will be no good at all. 

They need the golden pollen 

That I bring you on my way, 

To pay you for the honey 

That I take from you each day.” 

“What’s that you say?” cried Pink Wildrose, 

“I don’t believe it’s so 
That I must have that yellow stuff 
To make my nice seeds grow. 

And just to prove that you are wrong. 

I’ll ask that sleepy owl. 

Who’s list’ning up in yonder tree — 

He’s such a wise old fowl.” 

“Hoo! Hoo!” the sleepy owl exclaimed, 

“Hoo! Hoo! It seems to me 
You are a very foolish flower 
To quarrel with a bee. 

Of course a seed needs pollen ! 

And a bee needs honey, too!” 

And then he flopped his funny wings. 

And to the woods he flew. 



T hirty-tvjo 


The Ladybug’s Complaint 


Y LAND!” said Ladybug, “I feel 
As sour as a lime 
When I hear anybody quote 

That quaint old-fashioned rhyme — 

'Ladybug! Ladybug! ^ 

Fly away home. 

Your house is on fire. 

And your children will burnf 

“The rhyme itself might be all right, 

But I have failed to see 
How any one could ever think 
That it applies to me. 

“My home has never been on fire, 

My children are secure. 

And if I wish to be away, 

I have the right. I’m sure. 

“When first I heard the silly words, 

Affrighted home I flew, 

But I grew very wise at last, 

When fooled a time or two. 

“I do wish someone would be kind, 

And make another rhyme. 

Something that would apply to me, 

Perhaps along this line: 

“ 'Ladybug! Ladybug! 

Dont fly away. 

We find you so useful 

We want you to stay. 

You keep all the mites 

From the leaves of our plants. 

And you do a great deal 

Our good crops to advance.* 



“Now such a rhyme would make me glad, 
And fill my heart with glee, 

And help me in the work I do 
To aid humanity. 

“If every little girl and boy 

Will sing this newer song 
’Twill make me very happy — 

Won’t you please pass it along?” 


The Four Young Mosquitoes 

OUR young mosquitoes one bright night. 
I’m very pleased to tell, 

Went floating down the rain-trough 
On a half a peanut shell. 

Their names were Zing, and Zangy Wang, 

And Zungy Wung and Zoon, 

And they were singing harmony, 

Beneath the silv’ry moon. 

Zing played the ukelele, 

Zangy thrummed an old guitar, 

While Zung and Zoon on mandolins 
Awoke the echoes far. 

The night had been a busy one. 

Each one had had his fill. 

And they were very happy. 

As they floated down the rill. 

They played and sung and thrummed until 
The dawn grew gray o’erhead. 

And then they dropped their anchor down. 

And one mosquito said, 

“WeVe got to sharpen up our bills 
And be a feeling right. 

There’s going to be a picnic crowd 
Out in the park tonight.” 






The Vain Little Hen 


LITTLE brown hen lived alone in a house 
Away down at the foot of the lane, 

And a wily old fox, out in search of a meal. 
Came to call there again and again. 

He would rap on her window and coaxingly say, 

“Little hen, little hen, let me in; 

I have songs for your ear that are pleasing to hear 
And IVe many a fine yarn to spin.” 

But the little brown hen only laughed and replied, 

“Go away, sly old fox, it’s no use 

To be telling me what you can do — do you think 
That instead of a hen. I’m a goosef* 

Then the fox changed his tactics; “Oh, hen,” he implored, 
“I will give you a present most rare 

If only you’ll let me inside of your house — 

’Tis so warm and so cozy in there.” 

“You go on,” said the little brown hen, “don’t you know 
You are wasting my time and your own? 

I care nothing about any present you have. 

Go away, please, and leave me alone.” 

“Little hen,” plead the fox, “you’re a beautiful bird ; 

You have eyes that are shining and bright; 

There’s a sheen to your plumage most rare to behold. 
And your wings have a wonderful light.” 

When the vain little hen heard those flattering words 
Her poor heart was near bursting with pride. 

And although she tried hard to appear unconcerned. 

She was all of a flutter inside. 

“Do you mean what you say, Mr. Fox?” she exclaimed. 
“Yes, I certainly do,” answered he, 

“Ah, I want to come in to your cottage awhile. 

Won’t you please have some pity on me?” 




Then the poor silly hen, in her flattered delight — 

And forgetting her caution before — 

Came and raised up the bar, and unloosened the bolt. 
And the sly fox walked in through the door. 

When he came out again he was smiling and smug. 
And he did look exceedingly well. 

What became of the hen? Why, I really don’t know. 
For the sly old fox never would tell. 


The Very Polite Little Child 

KNOW a darling little child, who’s everyone’s delight. 
Because when at the table he does just exactly right. 

He always lays his napkin on his lap in one nice fold. 
He wouldn’t lean on elbows for a million tons of gold. 

You never hear him eat his soup, he doesn’t make a noise 
When eating anything, like some ill-mannered girls and boys. 

He breaks his bread in pieces, for he knows it isn’t nice 
For anybody, young or old, to eat bread from the slice. 

To place his little silver spoon right in its place beside 
His cup there in the saucer is his very special pride. 

His little knife he uses just for cutting food, you know. 

And when he’s using knife and fork, he holds them this way — so. 

He knows his fork was made to lift his food up to his lips. 

And that the finger-bowl is meant to cleanse his finger tips. 

He always says “I thank you,” when the food is passed his way, 
And asks if he may be excused before he goes to play. 

Now can you guess what little child I’ve talked of in this rhyme. 
Why, you’re the very one yourself, I meant you all the time. 



Thirty-six 




The Two Little Lights 

TWINKLING “Incandescent” 
And a glowing little “Arc” 
Were hanging close together 
On a corner near the park. 
They grew to know each other, 

As the hours sped apace, 

And soon this conversation 
That I relate took place. 

Said the twinkling Incandescent, 

“Do you know, it strikes me, Arc, 
That we’re lots of help to people 
Who are out when it is dark; 

I’ve heard it said that long ago 

Folks burned long, tallow sticks 
That made a flick’ring glimmer 
With their silly little wicks.” 

“Just so,” replied the arc light. 

As he gave a little laugh, 

“I’ve seen those lights you speak of. 

In an old-time photograph. 

Then later, people thought of lamps, 

I guess perhaps you’ve seen 
Those funny things made out of glass 
And filled with kerosene. 

“And then a man named Franklin 
Showed that he was very wise. 

By bringing electricity 

From out the summer skies. 

But it was Thomas Edison 

Of great and wond’rous mind 
Who made such lights as you and me 
To benefit mankind.” 

So the shining Incandescent 

And the twinkling little Arc, 

Both chuckled there together 

On the corner near the park. 

To think of how much brighter 

Their own rays could glow and shine 
Than the flick’ring tallow candles 
And the lamps of olden time. 



The Ambitious Little Tadpole 


TADPOLE who had always lived 
Down in the meadow stream, 
Grew discontented with his lot, 
And day by day he’d dream 
That some day he would turn into 
A lovely hopping frog 
Like those he’d often seen outside. 

Behind the moss-grown log. 

“Ah, me,” said he^ “I’d like to be 
A thing of gorgeous green. 

That glistens in the sunlight 

With that pretty shim’ring sheen!” 

It was the last thing that he wished 
Before he slept at night. 

And first thing that he thought about 
With morning’s rosy light. 

Now we are told that if we dream 
And think toward some end. 

That afterwhile our very dreams 
Will circumstances bend. 

Till we become what we desire. 

They say it’s really so! 

And certainly it did prove true 
In Tadpole’s case, I know. 

For one bright morning when the sun 
Shone down upon the bog. 

That little tadpole wakened up 
To find he was a frog. 

And now he is too happy 

And too glad for anything. 

And every evening he sits down 
And tries his best to sing. 

And since a musical career 

Is now this froggie’s choice, 

I ’spose he’ll wish and practice 
Till he gets a lovely voice. 





Blinky Bug and the Moon 


HERE’S a little town called “Bugville” 
Which you’d never, never see, 
Though you searched for it an hour 
In your school geography. 

But Bugville is a village 

In the meadow, just the same. 

Where once there lived a little bug. 

And “Blinky” was his name. 

Now Blinky was a selfish bug 
Who’d been his mother’s pet. 

And he was always wishing for 
The things he could not get. 

He wanted everything he saw, 

If it were dear or cheap, 

And if he couldn’t have a thing 
He’d sit him down and weep. 

One night he went adventuring — 

(The early part of June) — 

And looking up, he chanced to spy 
The shining silver moon. 

And when he found ’twas out of reach 
Because it was so high. 

Poor Blinky thought himself abused, 

And started in to cry. 

It happened he was flying 
Just above a crystal pool. 

And glancing downward suddenly. 

Within its waters cool. 

He saw the moon reflected 

Near the bright pool’s sparkling brim, 

In all its silvery beauty, 

Smiling softly up at him. 

Thought Blinky, “Now I’ve got it,” 

And he made a dive, “Blug! Blug!” 

That was the last that e’er was seen 
Or heard of Blinky Bug. 

It really seems a pity 

That he came to grief so soon. 

But that’s what comes to selfish folks 
Who try to own the moon. 





Tinkle Bell and Winkle Bell 

INKLE BELL and Winkle Bell 
Were little fairy twins, 

Who looked as like each other 
As two new shiny pins. 

But in their dispositions 

A diff’rence one could find, 

For Tinkle Bell was good and sweet 
And lovable and kind. 

While Winkle was an elvish sprite 
Who liked to make a stir, 

And there were quarrels in Fairyland, 

All on account of her. 

She had the flowers angry 
At the humming bees so bold, 

And butterflies were wrangling 
Over stories she had told. 

The leaves were much disturbed, and snarled 
At every sighing breeze, 

And little birds were quarreling 
In their nests up in the trees. 

When Winkle was accused of it 

She smiled and answered, “Well, 

It was not I who did it, 

’Twas my sister Tinkle Bell.” 

One day the queen of Fairyland 
Who’d heard each shocking fact 
Sent two of her policemen out 
To capture in the act 
This person who was gossiping 
And telling things untrue 
And soon they brought Miss Winkle in 
Ashamed and frightened, too. 

The queen took Winkle’s crown away. 

Her little wand as well. 

And locked her up to ponder 
In a fairy prison cell. 

She even cut her golden hair 

And clipped her pretty wings. 

For that’s what wicked fairies get 
Who tell falsehoods and things. 



The Boastful Little Rooster 


NCE a boastful little rooster 
Used to crow and crow and 
About how fine a fowl he was, 
Wherever he would go. 
He’d arch his pretty, shining neck 
And preen his feathers, too. 

And strut around the barnyard 
Crowing “Cock-a-doodle-do !” 

All the hens admired him greatly. 

And would follow him around 
To hear his bragging chatter. 

As he scratched the mellow ground. 
And they thought he was a monarch. 

And the king above them all. 

And they’d always come a running 
At his slightest beck and call. 

Now, one day, kind Mrs. Farmer 
Said, “I’d like a chicken stew,” 

. And her husband promptly answered, 
“Well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do: 

I’ll run that chesty rooster down 
Who’s bragging all the time 
About how much he thinks he’s worth — 
He’ll make a stew that’s prime.” 

“I will not catch the pullets 

For they lay an egg each day. 

And go about the barnyard 
In an unassuming way. 

But that young rooster makes me tired. 
The way he crows and crows. 

When he’s no better than the rest. 

As everybody knows.” 



And so the boastful rooster 

Who was bragging all the while, 
Was cooked into a fricassee 

That made the farmer smile. 

And when I hear young folks bragging 
Of the talents they’ve displayed, 

I recall that silly rooster 

And the fine stew that he made. 



The Brook and the Crocus Blossom 

O, HO!” said a gay little rollicking brook. 

To a wild crocus blossom that grew 
Up on top of the bank, “I was greatly surprised 
When I glanced up just now and saw you. 

I thought I would be first of all to wake up 
From my long winter slumber so deep. 

And here I find you blooming out in the cold. 

Don’t you think you should still be asleep?” 

“Not I,” laughed the crocus, “’twas too hard to wait 
For the long, winter hours to go, 

I grew very tired and impatient at last. 

And I stuck my head up through the snow. 

And I’m glad that I came, for the snow’s melting now, 
’Neath the rays of the warm, springtime sun, 

I believe I’m the very first flower to bloom; 

Oh ! I think this is bushels of fun 1” 


Then the rollicking, frolicking, gamboling brook. 
And the sweet, little, wild crocus maid. 

Just giggled and chuckled together with glee. 

To think of the joke she had played. 



The Mouse and the Wicked Old Cat 


NE time a wise old mother mouse said to her mousie child, 
“My dear, be very careful that you^re never, never wild, 
Because there is a wicked cat who stalks about this house. 
Who’s scheming just to make a meal on mother’s little mouse.” 

“Now, he will try to coax you out (he has a cunning way). 

But do not pay attention to a thing he has to say. 

And if you chance to see him, give a squeaky little call, 

And run just like the mischief to your hole here in the wall.” 

But little Mousie paid no heed to Mother’s words so wise, 

“What! Run from such a lovely cat, who had such tender eyes 
And such a low and gentle voice, and kind and pleasing way? 

No, she for one would listen to whatever he might say.” 

So one bright morn, she stuck her head out through the kitchen floor. 
And saw the old cat idling in the sun beside the door. 

“Come on out, Mousie,” said the cat, “Ah, you have lovely eyes. 

And, oh, your soft and pretty fur is bluer than the skies. 

“You’re just a darling little mouse, created to adore. 

Can it be true that nobody has told you so before?” 

Then foolish, flattered, little Mouse came running boldly out, 

And later on, when Mother Mouse went searching all about 

For her poor, little Mousie child, all that she ever found 
Was just the old cat lying in the doorway sleeping sound. 

It*s well for mice and people, too, to learn when they are young. 

To pay no heed to any one with such n flattering tongue. 



Forty ‘three 









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